


give you mine if your heart gets broke

by memorysdaughter



Series: got your heart in a headlock [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blind Character, Blindness, Braille, Canonical Character Death, F/F, Gardens & Gardening, Medical Experimentation, Medical Procedures, Medical Trauma, Panic Attacks, Refugees, Scars, Swimming, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 14:30:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20472581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memorysdaughter/pseuds/memorysdaughter
Summary: "Once you jump, there's no going back."Sequel to "the substance of things unseen."  Yasha's continuing stay in Nicodranas brings new joys and new sorrows.





	give you mine if your heart gets broke

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to "the substance of things unseen." I'd love to write more in this setting. Thank you to everyone who supported the previous work!
> 
> There is a SLIGHT spoiler for the Vex & Percy wedding Vox Machina one-shot in vignette #5; blink and you might miss it.
> 
> Title is from "I'll Be There" by Walk Off the Earth (my very favorite band).

_ release _

Yasha sits outside E.B. Groon’s office, frowning. She isn’t sure why she’s been asked to see the head of the Storm Lord Rehabilitation Center. She’s been visiting the center since she arrived in Nicodranas almost three years ago, and she’s met with Mr. Groon plenty of times, but never in his office. She must have done something wrong.

She slips her hand into her pocket and rubs her fingers over the worry stone there. She can’t see it, of course, but Beau told her it’s a blue-green color - _ You know, like your eye. _ There’s a pleasant groove in the middle of the smooth oval, just the right shape for Yasha’s thumb.

She wonders if Mr. Groon is going to tell her she can’t come back to Storm Lord. She can’t think what she did wrong. She hasn’t been at the Center for a few days. Maybe that’s what she did wrong. Maybe they need her to be here more. That doesn’t make sense, though. None of this does.

Yasha hears the door open and she stands up.

“Yasha?” Mr. Groon’s voice is deep and rich. “Will you come in, please?”

Keg told Yasha that Mr. Groon is in his forties, clean-shaven, and bald. Yasha knows he uses a wheelchair, and that his voice is rich and deep. According to Keg, he is “like, the strongest person I’ve ever seen… at least, he was, until I met you.”

“Yes,” Yasha says. Her voice shakes.

She feels Mr. Groon come closer, and then a hand reaches out and touches her arm. “Are you all right, Yasha?”

She can’t speak. She loves the Center. It’s one of the only places in Nicodranas she feels like she belongs. She doesn’t want Mr. Groon to say she’s no longer welcome.

“Oh, Yasha,” Mr. Groon says gently. “Here, come in.”

He gently pulls on her hand, and unconsciously she navigates through the doorway and into his office. He lets go and she hears the door close.

“Shit, Groon, what’d you do?”

Yasha feels a little relief. If Keg is in Mr. Groon’s office, things must be okay. Keg wouldn’t let them kick Yasha out.

“I’m not sure,” Mr. Groon says.

There’s a hand in hers, a smaller one, and Yasha knows Keg is near her, mostly by the smell of hair pomade and stale cigarettes. “Hey, what’s up?” Keg asks.

Yasha bows her head. There are tears in her eyes and she can’t even explain why. “Please… don’t make me leave,” she whispers.

“What?”

But Yasha can’t repeat it. It’s too awful to bear: that they might say she can’t be with the Storm Lord community anymore. That they’d take away the Braille library and the Braille notetaker she uses to send emails, the little group of friends she has, her O&M instructor, even her mentor, Keg - that they’d take _ any _ of it away makes her chest hurt.

Keg squeezes her hand. “Yash, this is a good news meeting.”

“I don’t… I don’t understand.”

“We know you’ve almost completed your courses here,” Mr. Groon says. “Part of our graduation, if you will, involves helping our students find employment in the community. We were approached by some individuals from the refugee agency who helped settle you. They need another Xhorhassian translator, and we recommended you.”

Yasha freezes. “You… what?”

“We knew how successful you’ve been since you came to Nicodranas,” Mr. Groon goes on. “We know you have a heart for others. Keg and I met with Mr. Tealeaf from the agency a few days ago, to talk about what a job would look like for you. If you’re willing, they want to hire you part-time.”

“Oh,” Yasha whispers. She can’t figure out what she’s feeling.

“Is that something you’d be interested in?”

Yasha’s brain goes to static. She’s thinking of all the places she was in between holding Zuala’s body and this office right now, and she can’t process all of it. Feelings and physical sensations roll over her - pain, and loss, and screaming, and hands on her body, hands holding her down, hands at her mouth, and the babbling rolling ocean of languages she didn’t speak spoken by people she didn’t know, who didn’t care about her, who didn’t even think she was human.

Her fingers ache and she realizes she’s gripping her cane like a vise. She relaxes her fingers and tries to get her body to do the same. Beads of sweat roll down her spine and she shivers, just a little.

“It’s okay if this is overwhelming,” Keg says, and Yasha remembers there are other people in the room, people she likes and trusts. “It must be difficult for you to think about leaving here and doing something else.”

“Can I… can I still come back here?” Her voice sounds puny and she hates it, hates that she isn’t strong.

Mr. Groon laughs. “Of course you can, Yasha! We’d be disappointed if you didn’t. You’re part of the Storm Lord family now. You’re welcome any time.”

Relief flows through her. She won’t lose another home. That sinks into her bones like armor and she loosens her grip on her cane even further. “Thank you.”

“Do you wanna talk about the job more later?” Keg asks from beside her. “We kinda hit you with a lot all at once.”

Yasha nods. She’s still trying to breathe with the weight of what they see in her pressing on her shoulders. All she wants is to be with Beau, try to explain how she feels so completely inadequate and so unmoored, but she’s afraid there aren’t words for what’s rolling over her in thick, heady waves.

“Okay, lady,” Keg says, and pats her hand.

“We’re so proud of you, Yasha,” Mr. Groon says.

Yasha can’t remember the last time anyone’s said that to her. Ever. In her entire life. That’s a new and weird feeling adding to all the other ones - more pleasant than anything else twisting in her belly.

She finds the worry stone in her pocket as Keg walks her out to the parking lot, out into the sunshine. The groove for her thumb is warm and it feels like a cradle. The day around her opens up as she hears Beau calling from the parking lot, the warm sun drying the rest of the sweat from her neck and palms.

* * *

_ hold _

Yasha sits down on the bed, crossing her legs. She rubs her eyes.

The bed bows under the weight of someone else climbing on behind her, and Beau says, “You seem more tired tonight. Long day?”

_ They’re all long _ is what Yasha wants to say, but she doesn’t. There are more than five hundred new refugees at the agency and she’s helping every one of them, it seems. She doesn’t mind the work, it’s mostly just listening and translating, but it feels like all of their problems are nestled inside her now, just under her sternum.

But she says, “No.”

Beau gives a short _ hmm _ and starts brushing Yasha’s hair. They do this most nights. Yasha greatly enjoys it. She wishes she could figure out her thoughts like Beau figures out how to untangle her hair.

“You’re not working too hard, are you?”

“No,” Yasha repeats. She closes her eyes.

Then there is the not-so-small matter of the email she received earlier, the one from the Solstryce Medical Group, saying they’re offering free medical care to refugees, if she’s interested. That, at least, feels safe to talk about.

“Beau?”

“Yeah?”

“What would you think if… if I wanted to have someone look at my eyes?”

“Like, me? ‘Cause you know I’ll do that all day long.”

Yasha smiles, and warmth curls around her. She loves Beau so much. “Not like that.”

“Staring’s not weird if you can’t see me doing it, right?”

“Just keep telling yourself that.” The brush strokes through her hair again. “I mean… a doctor. A doctor volunteered to look at my eyes and see if they can help me.”

The brush stops moving, and Beau’s hand comes down on her shoulder. “Is that something you want?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can they fix your eyes?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you _ want _ them to?”

There Yasha hesitates. She wouldn’t say she’s gotten used to being blind, but it’s become a very tangible reality, and over the past three years she’s come to terms with being blind for the foreseeable future, perhaps even forever. But there are a lot of things she wouldn’t mind seeing.

Beau’s face, for one.

“It’s cool if you don’t know,” Beau says. “I mean, that’s a lot to wrap your head around.”

“You think I should do it?”

“I think… you don’t know everything until you know everything.”

Yasha laughs. “You are so wise, Beauregard.”

“I’m a lot of things.” Beau wraps her arms around Yasha’s neck and kisses her. “Go see a doctor if you want. If you just need to find out. And if you don’t like what he says - just leave. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I’ll even go with you, if you want.”

“I’d like that.” 

Yasha turns in the embrace and reaches up, pulling Beau down into her lap. “Stay with me.”

“For as long as I can.” Beau yawns. “Or, at least, until I fall asleep.”

“Stay with me,” Yasha whispers. She takes Beau’s hand and rubs her thumb over the word she knows is there - her word, her word alone. _ Yours. _

“Wherever you go,” Beau promises.

* * *

_ out _

Yasha’s decided she doesn’t like the Solstryce Medical Complex. The smells are overwhelming and everything she’s touched so far has felt clinical, as though it was just wiped down with alcohol. The only things that aren’t impersonal and sharp are Beau, next to her, holding her hand, and Dr. Trickfoot, who came along as Yasha’s primary physician.

“We can go,” Beau murmurs to her.

“We haven’t even been seen yet.”

“I know. But you look like you’re ready to bolt or vomit, and I can’t tell which one I want less. You run pretty fast for a blind chick.”

Yasha tries to smile. She really does. She knows Beau’s just trying to help. But she’s shaking and her brain is buzzing. Something about this place is wrong. Maybe it’s that she hasn’t seen a doctor in an office since she came to Nicodranas - Dr. Trickfoot comes to the house to treat her when she has a cold or the flu - but it might be something else.

“Yash, we can go,” Beau says again, a little more firmly.

The roar in her head gets louder, and Yasha tries to speak. Her lips are cold. The fingers holding her cane feel numb. Something is wrong.

There’s a sudden bolt of pain in the middle of her chest, like Beau’s punched her, even though Yasha knows for certain that hasn’t happened, knows that Beau will never ever punch her, that Beau will never hurt her. She tries to say something but nothing comes out except for a thin wail. Her pulse pounds in her head and the world tips away from her.

_ Yasha, can you hear me? _

_ Yasha. Can you hear me? _

“Zuala?” Yasha breathes.

There’s a cool hand on her wrist. A man’s hand. A slightly accented voice says, “No, I’m sorry. My name is Caleb. I am a student… a medical student here, in training. Please, remain calm. You will be fine.”

“Beau,” Yasha chokes out. “Beau? Where’s Beau? Please, don’t take her from me!”

“I’m right here,” Beau says, and there’s a kiss on her cheek. “I’m right here.”

Yasha leans into the touch, and Beau seems to sense that she needs more, taking Yasha’s free hand in hers and squeezing tightly. “I’m right here,” Beau whispers.

“You will be fine,” the accented voice says. “Your pulse is coming down. I will let you recover for a few minutes and then come back.”

“Thank you,” Beau says. Yasha hears a door open and then close.

“What happened?” Yasha whispers. Her throat hurts.

“It looked like you had a panic attack,” Dr. Trickfoot says. Her voice is close, soft, gentle.

“You started screaming, and you broke some things out in the waiting room, and then you passed out,” Beau adds.

“I’m sorry.”

Beau squeezes her hand again. “Don’t be sorry. I can’t imagine what this is like for you.”

Yasha pushes herself upright. Her head swims and she drunkenly bobbles on what seems like an examination table of some sort. Immediately there’s support on both sides - Beau on her left, Dr. Trickfoot on her right. Yasha sags into Beau, feeling deflated and drained. “Please… can we go?”

“Of course,” Beau says. “But let’s wait ‘til that intern guy gets back and see if he can get us a wheelchair, ‘cause I don’t think you’re in any shape to walk.”

The door opens a few minutes later and Caleb the student says, “Ms. Nydoorin, I have brought the doctor with me.”

“Hello, Ms. Nydoorin,” a new voice says. It’s smooth, silky, deep. It’s like Mr. Groon’s but without the heart - more clinical. “I was the one scheduled to look at your eyes. Would you allow me to do a quick exam before you go? If you’re feeling up to it, of course. Otherwise we can reschedule.”

Yasha can’t speak. She hears someone walk closer to her, and a new hand - unfamiliar, cold, wrong - touches her arm. “Ms. Nydoorin?”

The room is getting smaller. Yasha doesn’t know how, because she can’t see it, but suddenly she can’t breathe again. She’s been here before - she’s heard that voice before. That voice… something happened the last time she heard it, something she doesn’t want to remember… something she _ can’t _ remember. The world tilts away from her; there’s a hot pulse behind her sightless eyes and her stomach flips.

She feels Beau grab onto the back of her shirt, and she hears someone calling her name, but she’s gulping air and trying to get away from that voice and those hands.

“Please! No! I’m sorry - stop - please - it _ hurts!” _

Her body hits the floor and she screams, her arms and legs jerking inward, chest heaving as she tries to suck in air. She pulls herself tighter, tighter into a ball - maybe if they can’t see her they won’t hurt her anymore -

“Yasha.”

It’s Zuala’s voice but Zuala is dead.

“Yasha.”

It can’t be Zuala, Zuala is dead in a jail cell _ no _ a bomb crater thousands of miles from here and Yasha is alive and Zuala can’t be here but -

_ “Yasha.” _

But there’s a sharp pain in her arm and it _ sounds _ like Zuala’s voice and she _ wants _ it to be Zuala’s voice _ so _ bad she wants it more than anything but there isn’t anything anymore there’s just Yasha and Yasha is going, going, floating -

* * *

_ in _

“Yasha, it’s Dr. Trickfoot.”

She’s still floating. She wants to rise above the surface, reach out for the world she knows she occupies, but Zuala’s voice is still calling her downward.

“You’re safe. We brought you home. I know you don’t understand what’s happening now. Please just sleep.”

She reaches out for Zuala, feels the soft fabric of Zuala’s favorite shirt, the wispy tendrils of Zuala’s hair wrapping around her fingers.

“I gave you some medication to help you relax. Beau’s here next to you.”

She’s holding onto someone - Zuala? - with her fingers wrapped around their arm. There’s something on Zuala’s wrist, something Yasha remembers but doesn’t - something that makes sense to her but shouldn’t. _ Yours. _

A different voice: “I love you, Yasha.”

_ Yours _, and then there is no more.

  


“Yasha.”

There’s something at her mouth. Yasha gags, tries to bring her arms up, tries to fight, thinking she’s back in the containment center, being force-fed by Empire soldiers.

“Yasha, it’s water. Drink, okay?”

The pressure at her mouth is too much and without her permission Yasha finds her mouth opening. Water trickles into her dry mouth and down her throat and she swallows, suddenly desperate for more of it.

“Okay, okay, easy, take it slow. If you barf on me we’re both in trouble.”

“Please,” she splutters. “Please… do… not… leave.”

“I won’t leave you. I’m right here.” A tentative hand touches her forehead. “Can I touch you?”

“Hold,” Yasha says. “Please.”

“You’re so polite. It’s adorable.”

The bed shifts and arms wrap around her. Yasha reaches up and runs her fingers over the arms around her, over the hands, trailing until she finds what she’s looking for: _ yours. _

“You’re probably gonna be a little sleepy still, okay? I’ll be right here when you wake up again. I promise.” There’s a short pause. “You’re gonna be okay, Yasha. We’ll figure it out when you’re yourself again.”

  


When she wakes she is still held, wrapped in someone’s arms. Not Beau’s arms, but somebody’s, and that’s okay. There’s something soft and unspooling in her stomach and she feels her lips quivering.

“Hello, Yasha,” Jester says, and there’s a soft peck on her cheek. “I sent Beau to sleep. She was making herself sick over you.”

“Jester,” Yasha breathes.

“That’s me.”

“I need… I need to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Jester asks gently.

“I need to tell… all of you.” Each word feels like it weighs a hundred pounds in Yasha’s mouth. Her head is muddled and she can’t figure out if she’s even speaking a language Jester understands.

Jester doesn’t speak for a few minutes, just strokes Yasha’s hair, but when she speaks, her voice is careful. “Okay, Yasha. I’ll get everybody in here. Do you want something to eat?”

Yasha shakes her head.

“I’ll bring you something anyway,” Jester says, sounding a little brighter now that her mind’s moved to food.

Yasha closes her eyes and drifts out for a few minutes, only returning to the world when she feels Beau’s hand in hers.

“What’s up?” Beau asks softly. “Jessie says you needed to talk to all of us. She’s still down getting you all kinds of doughnuts and cookies and stuff, but Fjord’s here with me.”

Yasha pulls Beau towards her, suddenly overwhelmed with a desperate craving to be reassured that she still exists, that she’s still alive, that she still has a physical self that’s rooted here in this bedroom, here in Nicodranas. She grabs Beau, wraps her arms around Beau, squeezes tightly, buries her face in Beau’s neck, tears streaming down her face and something electric in her bones whispering _ they’ll take it all away from you if they know. _

She hears Beau choke out _ oof _ and then Fjord’s arms are on hers, pulling Beau free. “Yasha, you’re hurting her,” he says firmly. “Yasha, _ stop.” _

That electric zing floods out of her and Yasha goes limp, shaking, sweat coating her body. _ “Xa tovay,” _ she gasps out. _ I’m sorry. _

“It’s okay,” Beau says, but she sounds winded and a little unnerved.

“What the _ fuck,” _ Fjord says under his breath.

“Yasha,” Beau says, putting her hand to Yasha’s cheek, “you have to tell us what’s going on. This is… this is… you’re scaring me.”

That’s like a punch to Yasha’s chest and she bows in over it. Beau rubs her back. “Just tell us what’s happening, okay? Take your time.”

_ “The doctor today,” _ Yasha says in Xhorhassian, and then realizes the words have filled her mouth like clots of ash. She shakes her head and starts over. “I knew that doctor today.”

“What?”

“The one… who came in second…”

“Dr. Obann?”

A shiver runs down Yasha’s spine and her stomach contracts with nausea. The name hangs in the air, black and oily, and the room seems to spin around her.

“Stay with me,” Beau says, and hands come down on Yasha’s shoulders. “Don’t pass out. Jeez, you’re sweaty.”

“I’ll turn the fan on,” Fjord offers, and after a few seconds Yasha hears the ceiling fan come on, feels the cooler air on her face.

“When I was… when I was… when they found me…” The air’s getting heavy, harder to breathe. Yasha’s dizzy and she just wants to get the words out. “... they took me… to a place…”

She whimpers. Her chest hurts.

“It’s okay,” Beau whispers, and strokes the hair back from Yasha’s face.

“I don’t remember it all,” Yasha gets out, sobbing now. “They hurt me. There’s time I’m missing…”

“And he was there?”

Yasha nods.

“Okay,” Beau says gently. “Is that why you got upset today when he came in?”

Yasha nods again.

“Can you tell us any more about what happened?”

_ Hands holding her down. Calling her things she knows aren’t good words, saying things about Zuala, how they found the two of them together, insinuating they were doing something dirty by being together. Cutting her. Cutting on her eyes, her face, her ears. Needles. Lots of needles. Force-feeding her when she wouldn’t eat, even after she vomited everything up. Keeping her somewhere small and cold. He said he could… _

“... make something of me,” Yasha breathes. Her arms drop limply to her sides.

The room is quiet. All Yasha hears is the ceiling fan, and for a moment she’s scared Beau and Fjord left the room while she was babbling in Xhorhassian.

“Sounds like he’s an asshole,” Fjord says after a few beats.

“Sounds like we need to get that fucker fired,” Beau says.

“But you… you didn’t understand any of that,” Yasha says, confused.

“No, but we trust you,” Fjord says.

Beau takes Yasha’s hand in hers, and moves Yasha’s fingers up to her eyes, touching gently the scars Yasha knows are there, and down to the scar under Yasha’s lower lip, and up to the ones by her ears. “And we can see it,” Beau says, her voice husky. “We can see what you were talking about.”

She kisses Yasha’s cheek. “We’ll get that fucker.”

Yasha’s stunned. “I can… I can stay?”

“Where else would you go?” Fjord asks. “This is your home.”

“You’re not… mad?”

“We’re mad, all right,” Beau says. “But not at you.”

Jester’s voice comes from near the door. “Never, ever, _ ever, _Yasha.”

The sick feeling of too many emotions still swims in Yasha’s stomach. She squeezes Beau’s hand. “I’m… I’m very tired all of a sudden.”

“Okay,” Beau says. “Okay.”

She kisses Yasha, and wipes the tears out of Yasha’s eyes, and they all straighten out the sheets and blankets, and Yasha lays down under the gentle clicks of the ceiling fan, her friends around her, and sleeps the blessed dark sleep of the undreaming.

* * *

_ runaway _

Yasha wakes to find the house quiet around her. The bed next to her is empty. She pushes back her covers and gets out of bed; she pulls on shorts and a tank top. She grabs her cane and her backpack and goes downstairs.

In the kitchen she fills her water bottle with ice and water, sticks two granola bars and a peach in her backpack, and puts on her shoes. She lets herself out the back door and steps out into the cool morning.

The bus takes her to Storm Lord, just like many other buses before it. Yasha gets off and lets the bus leave before she starts walking up the driveway towards the center. It smells like the grass is freshly cut.

She’s not sure exactly what she’s doing here. It’s too early for the center to even be open yet, and it’s the weekend, meaning that it could be even later until she can even get into the building. And once she gets in, there isn’t really anything she needs.

“Hello,” a deep voice calls from somewhere on her right.

Yasha turns towards it. “Hello,” she says.

Her cane hits a fence, flat planks by the feel of it, and she reaches forward and touches it, trailing with her hand to try to find a gate.

“Are you coming in here?” the voice asks.

Yasha stops. “Do you want me to?”

“That depends. You gonna work?”

“On what?”

“My garden.”

Yasha takes another step to her left, still trailing along, looking for a gate with her hand. “I’ve never worked in a garden before.”

“How come?”

“I just… haven’t.”

“Well, okay. Mine’s the best. You like flowers?”

“I guess so? I haven’t… really… thought about it.”

Yasha finds a latch and pulls up. A small gate swings out towards her; she navigates around it and takes a few steps forward onto a path that feels a bit pebbly beneath her sneakers.

“I like flowers,” the voice tells her. “I was the flower man in my friends’ wedding.”

“What’s a flower man?”

“Oh, it’s a very important job. I had to get everyone out of the way by throwing flowers.”

“Out of the way of what?”

“Of… the bride. ‘Cause she’s very important.”

Yasha’s cane finds something in front of her. She leans forward and touches what feels like a tall wooden box. It’s filled with dirt and plants. The dirt is warm and soft.

“Those are my best flowers,” the voice says, and then it’s right next to her. The speaker is big, tall; he blocks out most of the light. “Not roses, though, ‘cause they’re too picky. These ones are snowdrops and lilies and the orange ones that I don’t remember the name of and the dragon flowers.”

“Dragon flowers?”

“Yeah, I think that’s what they’re called. They don’t look like dragons to me. Have you ever seen a dragon?”

“No,” Yasha answers honestly.

“Me neither. I think it’d be scary.” The man snuffles. “Well, anyway, you wanna help me or not?”

“Um, I guess so.”

“Okay. Your job is to water stuff, okay?”

“Okay.”

The man walks away for a minute and returns, setting something heavy on the wooden box next to Yasha. “Okay, here’s the watering can. Make sure they all get water. That’s their food. But not too much, because they can drown.”

There’s a pause, and then he gently picks up Yasha’s right hand and sets it on the rough metal handle of a watering can. “That’s okay?” he asks softly.

“That’s okay,” she answers.

“Um, good. I’m gonna go… do some weeding and stuff.”

Yasha loses track of time as she makes her way around the raised garden boxes, lifting and pouring and checking the soil with her fingers. It’s strangely reassuring, this repetitive motion of feeding all the flowers. She doesn’t have to focus on anything but the water and the plants. At one point she hears the man singing, not loudly but very determinedly. A short while later, he comes over, touches her shoulder gently, and hands her a full watering can.

“You’re doing a good job,” he says. “Not everybody’s careful with the plants.”

She hands him the nearly-empty one, and he takes it. “You want some strawberries?”

“Okay,” Yasha says.

“I’ll get ‘em.”

Yasha finishes watering the box in front of her and then sits down on the low edge. The sun is higher in the sky now and she can hear cars and other people arriving at the center. Her new gardening friend returns and sits down next to her. He reaches up and carefully makes her hand into a small cup, into which he puts several small fruits.

They sit and snack in silence for awhile. The little strawberries are sweet and juicy; they explode across Yasha’s tongue like tiny bursts of happiness.

“What are you runnin’ away from?”

“Why do you think I’m running away?” Yasha asks.

“‘Cause you brought your backpack. When I run away I take my backpack.”

“Do you run away a lot?”

“Not as much anymore.”

“Did it ever work for you?”

Her conversation partner hums a bit. “No, not really. I’d always haveta go back. And sometimes they’d be mad at me. No… not _ mad, _ just _ disappointed. _Is somebody gonna be disappointed in you?”

“I don’t know,” Yasha says quietly. “Maybe they already are.”

“But you’re great!” He sounds astonished. “Nobody should be disappointed in you.”

Yasha smiles and ducks her head.

“You’re good with the plants, and you’re really tall, and you have a nice smile,” he goes on.

“I told my friends some things that were really hard for me to say,” Yasha says. “And now I’m afraid that they’ll see me differently.”

“Did you do something bad?” The big, gentle hand comes down and puts more strawberries into her grasp.

“No.”

“Did you hurt somebody?”

“No.”

“Then why would they be upset?”

Yasha shakes her head. “I don’t know. Maybe they’ll think I’m bad, because I couldn’t stop what was happening to me.”

“If somebody hurt you, that’s not your fault,” the man says. “And if your friends are real friends, they’ll help you and make you feel better, because that’s what friends do. Friends take care of each other.”

He takes Yasha’s hand and holds it gently. “Or we can be friends.”

In Yasha’s pocket her phone rings._ “Call from: Beau,” _ the voiceover app announces.

“I’d like that,” Yasha says.

“You can come work in my garden whenever you want.”

“I’d like that too.”

“So maybe you don’t have to run away anymore.”

“I don’t think I really wanted to run away… I think I just wanted to be somewhere else for a bit.”

“That’s what gardens are for.”

_ “Call from: Beau.” _

“I should probably answer that.”

“Okay. I’m gonna go finish my work. My friend Pike’s gonna be here soon and she’s gonna take me to lunch, and then we’re going to the zoo.”

“That sounds nice,” Yasha says. “Um, by the way, my name is Yasha.”

“Oh! Yeah. Hi, Yasha. My name is Grog, and you can come to my garden any time you want.”

* * *

_ homecoming _

Beau throws her arms around Yasha and squeezes so tightly that it takes Yasha’s breath away - both with the strength in Beau’s grasp and with the love Beau’s pouring through the embrace.

“You scared the shit out of us,” Beau whispers into Yasha’s ear. “What were you _ thinking?” _

“I just… I just needed to be somewhere else,” Yasha whispers back.

Beau rocks them back and forth. “I thought you were gone.”

She kisses Yasha. Yasha feels tears build in her eyes. She squeezes Beau’s hand in hers. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“You could have left us a note,” Beau says, pulling back.

“You don’t read Braille,” Yasha points out, smiling.

“I should learn,” Beau says. She kisses Yasha again.

Yasha flicks her thumb over Beau’s wrist. _ Yours. _ It’s still there.

“I called Dr. Trickfoot,” Beau says. “I asked her about the Solstryce Clinic and about Dr. - well, the doctor you said you knew.”

Pressure builds in Yasha’s head. “No,” she whispers.

“What?”

“I can’t talk more about that,” Yasha says.

“But we can expose him, and -”

_ “No,” _ Yasha says firmly. “Not today. I can’t.”

“Okay.” Beau takes Yasha’s hand in hers. “Not today.”

They’re both silent for a moment. Then Beau says, “So if not today, what _ are _ we doing today?”

  


Fjord loads them into his truck and drives them all to the lake. Jester is extremely excited about her new bathing suit - “I wish you could see it, Yasha, because it’s got sequins _ and _ flowers on it and it’s just the best!”

From the back, Beau says, “Do you know how to swim?”

“Oh, yes,” Yasha says, and she grins. “Zuala and I…”

She pauses.

“It’s okay,” Beau says softly. “I like to hear you talk about her.”

“There was a lake a short distance from where we lived,” Yasha says after a moment. “We would go there if we could sneak off together. She would bring some bread and I would get a bottle of _ audzjoa _ \- it’s like a cherry drink - and we would swim and then we would lay out and eat and drink and…”

She closes her eyes, wistful with the memory.

“That sounds beautiful, Yasha,” Jester says.

“It was.”

They lay out towels on the warm sand. Beau pitches the umbrella, Fjord sets up the two somewhat-rickety chairs they’ve brought, and Jester bounces around between everyone, applying sunscreen. Yasha sits down and digs her feet into the sand while Jester applies sunscreen to her.

“You’re so pale, Yasha!” Jester frets. “You’re going to be a big red berry if you get sunburned!”

“Delicious,” Beau says, only a little lasciviously, and Yasha thinks she can almost _ hear _ the look on Beau’s face.

When they’re all “greased,” as Fjord puts it, Beau takes Yasha by the hand and leads her down the sandy shore. “Do you like to go all in, or wade in? I only ask because there’s a dock we can jump off into the deep end… you know, if you’re not one of those pussy-footing, wade-in types.”

“Are _ you _ one of those types?” Yasha asks mischievously.

“Not if you’re not,” Beau answers.

“Then take me to that dock.”

Under her bare feet the wooden planks of the dock are sun-baked. They walk in silence, Yasha’s hand on Beau’s elbow, savoring the warmth, both of the sun on her face and of Beau’s skin under her fingers.

“Okay,” Beau says finally. “If you put your toes out you can feel the edge of the dock. Once you jump, there’s no going back.”

Something clenches around Yasha’s heart - _ there’s no going back _ seems to mean both leaping into the lake and going forward with whatever’s going to happen with Dr. Obann - but she forces it down. She finds the edge of the dock with her right foot, then positions herself facing the lake, ready for the jump.

“Do you want to go together?” Beau asks.

“Yes,” Yasha answers immediately.

“Okay, on three then,” Beau says. She takes Yasha’s hand, meshing their fingers together. “One, two…”

At _ three _ Yasha squeezes Beau’s hand and jumps.

There’s a glorious few seconds where she’s hanging in the air, suspended in the sun, the weight of the world lifted off her shoulders. Then comes the fall, sweet and expected, leading right into the cold water. Yasha goes under, her hand loosening from Beau’s upon impact, and she’s sinking like a rock. She imagines the ripples from her body spreading out across the once-calm surface of the lake. Underwater she’s held in stasis, the cold perfusing her limbs in a shocking but not unwelcome way. Bubbles ripple past her face and she pushes her arms down, kicking her legs, heading for the surface.

* * *

_fingertips _

“You want a nip from my flask?”

“No, Keg.”

“You sure?”

“I was sure the first four times you asked me.”

“I don’t know, this time could be different.”

“Did you put something in it other than that awful pear brandy you like?”

“No.”

“Okay, then I don’t want it.”

“I’m just trying to be supportive.”

“I know. And it’s very adorable.”

Keg squeezes Yasha’s free hand. “Don’t call me adorable.”

Yasha’s fingers roam over the Brailled papers in her lap. It’s strange to read the names of Xhorhassian places in Braille, strange to be able to remain so disconnected from places where she was tortured, simply because they’re contained in these emotionless raised dots. _ Obann, _ she forces herself to read. _ Ztowap Refugee Camp #1. Empire soldiers - _

Footsteps come down the hallway, and Dr. Trickfoot says, “Yasha? They’re ready to speak with you now.”

“But Beau’s not here,” Yasha says, her head jerking up towards the doctor, the emotionless reserve she’s been holding suddenly evaporating.

“It’s okay,” Dr. Trickfoot says. “Do you want to get some water? We could wait for a few minutes, but if she’s not here -”

“Hey, Pike,” a loud and somewhat familiar voice says, “I found this lady outside an’ she hit her head but she says it’s really important she gets in here for a -”

“Grog, I’m right here,” Dr. Trickfoot says. “Help her over here and let me see what I can do.”

“You know Grog?” Yasha asks.

“He’s my best friend,” Dr. Trickfoot says, her voice soft with pride.

“Your woman looks like she got in a fight with the sidewalk,” Keg says.

Someone collapses onto the bench next to Yasha, and immediately her fingers leave the Braille paper in her lap, bringing them up to grab onto Beau. She hears the papers swish to the floor, but her focus is gone. “What _ happened?” _she demands.

“My car broke down,” Beau says, sounding a little out of breath, “so Jester told me I could take her scooter… as it turns out, I’m not so great with the brakes. Did I make it?”

“You made it,” Yasha says.

“Oh, good.”

“Is this one of those times I’m going to be glad that I can’t see your face?”

“I don’t think I look _ that _ bad,” Beau protests.

Yasha leans into Beau’s shoulder, solid and sure. “Thank you for being here.”

Beau takes Yasha’s hand and kisses it, kisses the Braille-reading fingertips, and electricity zings up Yasha’s spine, reinforcing it, grounding her, making everything about this safe and acceptable, no matter what happens next. “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr as memorysdaughter!


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